


They who Remember (Are Yet to Be)

by Hedgi



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: A bit introspective, Gen, all aboard the pain train, reaction fic, shoulda put the babies back, timeline wonkyness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6769807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedgi/pseuds/Hedgi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jax touches down January 21st, 2016, just hours after he'd left, and he knows three things</p><p>1. he is not dying<br/>2. he is home<br/>3. Grey will die without him.</p><p>Surely he can take a few minutes before trying to return, though, to say all the things he didn't get to before. Hug his mother, just in case.</p><p>Turns out, it's not so simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They who Remember (Are Yet to Be)

There’s no way to describe the feeling. It’s not like the other time jump he’s made, pressure crushing him back against the seat so he can’t think of anything else. Instead it feels—halfway between the feeling of misshapen wings and a beak molding back into his body, returning to wholeness, and the weakness—and the strength—of his first step since the surgery when he was 18. The ache in his back, in his knees and fingers, eased, the pain leaving until all that was left was the newness of a limb that hadn’t born much weight recently, fresh strength. He stood, wobbling.

First thought: He was not going to die.

He was not going to die.

Second thought: He was home.

He knew the street that the jumpship had left him on, three blocks down from the Auto shop, two up and three over from his Gran’s. An easy walk—no—an easy run. His leg felt whole in a way it hadn’t in—he paused. The knee hadn’t given him pain in days, at least, maybe weeks. Had Gideon fixed it, like they’d fixed Snart’s hand? Two years ago, that would have made a mountain of difference, but now—how much did it matter?

Third thought: Grey had been left behind.

Grey had Stayed behind, and for what? They could have both fit. There was room. They could have--

It had been so long since the last merge, days at least, how long could he go? He’d had a couple months after Ronnie had gone, but—but he was older now, only a few weeks removed from having been tortured, what if they only had days? Minutes? What if he couldn’t get back? He could still see the image of Valentina going up in a blaze of blue. Grey didn’t deserve that. _Give Clarissa my Love_ —how could he tell her that he’d up and left her husband to die decades in the future?

No. He couldn’t. He was better, now, healed, he could tell. He could rig the jumpship to find them again, not because he’d read the manual dozens of times, not because he was a damn good mechanic, but because there was no other option. His team was out there, fighting, maybe dying. He’d never left anyone behind like that, hell if he’d start now.

The jumpship’s clock readout said it was quarter to six, January 21st. Jax felt his heart stutter, and for a moment he worried that the aging had left a mark after all, but no. Dinner. He was meant to go to dinner, at his Grandma Louise’s. His mom would be there. They were expecting him. Jax felt his fingers go trembly at the thought. He had to get back.

Fourth thought: he had to get back, had to get back, had to help.

Fifth thought: being a hero means sacrifice.

There was time, though, there had to be. He could eat—what good was he on an empty stomach? Couldn’t fight like that. And—his ma. He could tell her. Could tell her he was leaving, could say goodbye, just in case. At the very least he could tell her—god, he could tell her about his dad, could see if that had changed, he could call Clarissa to let her know her husband was coming home, because he’d make sure of it. All the unspoken things, the messages to be delivered, he could do that, and then return.

Slowly, he climbed from the jumpship, new knees steady beneath him, no wobbling as his feet met solid ground, solid in time. January meant it was dark out, orange glowing streetlamps lighting the way through what was, admittedly, not the best neighborhood in town, but not the worst. Not nearly the worst. It had been ages since Jax was afraid, and now, with Sara’s tutelage, with weeks of mimicking Rory’s walk and Sara’s easy confidence, the dim streets held no danger he couldn’t face off. No Savage here meant little to fear. It was hard to be scared of shadows when you’d faced their maker, in a way.

Autopilot took him to his gran’s house, butter-yellow, lacy curtains in the window, a neat-swept front porch with wicker rocker, the pillow faded and stained with water and age. Jax could smell dinner even this far out, and it woke his stomach. Roasting chicken, rosemary and herbs she grew in window boxes mixing in for gravy, the heavy smell of cornbread still in the oven.

It had been so long since he’d had his Gran’s cooking, his ma’s. So long since he’d heard their voices, hugged them—months, now, he thought, it had to have been months. He raised a hand to knock—Grandma Louise never did hold with doorbells, you knocked or you hollered in and that was that. Made it easier for her to ignore folks she didn’t wanna see, she’d told him over cards on night.

His grandmother looked frailer than she should have, a little more hunched, but she still met his gaze square, her mouth turned down in a frown. “Boy, it is dinner time, what do you want?”

He blinked. “Gran, it’s me.”

“Who on God’s green earth is ‘me’?” she snapped, and not in the way she’d smack a hand from a soup bowl before grace was said, but firm, bitter. “And what do you mean calling me “Gran”? I’m not your Auntie, I’m not your Gran, so you explain to me what you mean standing on my porch at suppertime.”

Jax swallowed hard against the stone-solid lump of disbelief. “It—it’s me. Your grandson. Jefferson.” He repeated it slow—maybe, maybe something had happened, maybe she was sick, maybe he’d changed. He hadn’t seen a mirror since he’d been hit with the radiation, after all, maybe…

She huffed, still blocking the doorway. “You got a lotta nerve, young man. Does your mama know your go round scamming old ladies? Be ashamed of you. Git off my porch before I call the neighborhood watch, I have had it with all you low-life types. Don’t know why you came here instead of my daughter’s but thank the lord you did, she’s been through enough.”

“What? No, I—Gran, don’t you know who I am?”

“Don’t try that trick on me. Shame on you.” She moved to slam the door, but as much as Jax wanted to stop her, he felt paralyzed. What was going on? How had this happened?

Sixth thought: We never got the babies back

Seventh thought: We never got the babies back

Eighth thought: There’s no one to remember

Shock sat like a block of ice, sliding down his throat and filling his belly, his fingers wouldn’t move, his mouth wouldn’t work, couldn’t even form the desperate “Please” that lay on his tongue like a prayer.

“Mama? Who’s at the door?” Jax felt his knees trying to collapse, Jell-O on a hot day.

“Mom,” he whispered, staring hungrily past his grandmother’s shoulder into the lit hallway, towards his mother’s voice. “Ma!”

His gran made a noise of low disgust. “You see here, my girl’s been through enough, you don’t get to-” but she was cut off when Jax’s mother reached the door.  Jax wanted to reach out, wanted to hug her and never let go again, wanted to be as safe as a kid again, cuddled and warm. He wanted to cry into her shoulder about how sorry he was for being late all those times, wanted to say he was sorry for being reckless. He wanted to ask if Dad was ok this time, if they’d saved him.

He only stood, still as a porch rail, as confusion flickered over her face, took the warmth from her smile. That wasn’t right, she had to know him. She couldn’t forget, she couldn’t not—he felt his throat closing up, self-defense against tears.

“Who are you?” she asked, not nearly as demanding as Gran had been, but still—colder than his mother had ever been to him. “What did you call me?”

“Mom,” he managed miserably. “I know it won’t make sense, I know, but please, you have to let me explain. It’s me. Your son, Jefferson Jackson, Jax. I—I—please, I can explain, just let me explain—“

“No,” Grandma Louise snapped, even as his mother’s shoulders jerked with a suppressed sob. “We have been through enough of this—“

“Mama,” his mother said, shaking her head, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You heard, he said Jax.”

“Could be a lucky guess,” Louise snapped back, but relented with a sigh, taking him in critically. “You’re too skinny. Guess might as well feed you, but I know Joe west on the police force, and if this is a scam, any kind of trick, you mark me—you’ll wish you’d never thought of it. Sit.” She pointed at the least comfortable chair in the house.

Ninth thought: if his mother didn’t know him, really didn’t, he wasn’t sure he could take it.

“My son was kidnapped from the hospital twenty years ago,” his mother started. “So—what’s your explanation?” She wore a look of grim determination, to power through heartbreak like a second skin. Jax swallowed, searching her face for any sign she recognized him, and felt himself shattering when he realized she didn’t. It was like when Grey had spoken to Clarissa on the ship, he realized, but the ache had been spread across the bond, too thin. He hadn’t felt more than an echo.

“Six hours ago, for you, I—I left, I worked at the shop couple streets over, a mechanic. I went to see a friend at the university, and we—god, I’m not crazy, I promise—we time traveled. We’re a—You know the flash, right? Like that, the Particle accelerator changed us, and we had to do this thing, but it went wrong. We had to hide our younger selves before they got killed, and that’s why you don’t know who I am.”

Louise snorted.

His mother furrowed her brow. “Time travel. He—Louise, how else would he know—You know what James said, before--“

“I met dad, I met him. I never knew him growing up, but we changed time. I spoke to him,” Jax said, urgently. “If he wrote you, if he said anything—he might have said something about me, or Martin Stein, or the Pilgrim, I dunno, but you have to believe me. I can prove it. I can prove who I am.” He began rifling through his wallet—school ID, a family portrait. “G’ma, Dad’s mom, used to make spiced walnuts at Christmas, and she never told anyone how to make them, and Dad’s dad always ate too many of them, and you used to sing to me at night, every night, the same song Gran sang to you, something about pretty little horses, and Ma, I know it sounds crazy, but please, you have to know me. Grandma Louise has all her herb garden in window boxes, cuz she says she’s too old to have a full garden when the neighbor’s dog and the raccoons would just rip it up anyway, and every summer we’d go to G’ma’s for a week, and she’d never agree to move to the city, because she’d named all the birds and squirrels like she could tell them apart, and—“ his sleeve rode up as he gestured at the light fixture “and Grandad built that from old piping and taught me how to fix things, because someone needed too, and Gran, you always said it was ugly as sin but because he made it for you it was perfect.”

“Stop,” his mother said softly. “Where did you get that watch?”

“You gave it to me,” Jax said, miserably. “Don’t you know who I same?”

“I bought that watch for my husband, twenty years ago. I gave it to him for his birthday. It got smashed up in the raid—he was looking for our son, five years he spent, hunting child kidnappers, traffickers. He always said…” she looked up at him, fingers brushing the watch. “He always said we’d find you again. You’d call yourself Jax, and you’d come back.”

He let her take his hand.

“I don’t know you. But I know you’re him. I can feel it. Oh, my baby boy.”

Tenth thought: He couldn’t stay.

He let her hug him a little tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> :)   
> I'm not sorry.


End file.
